LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



0014 457 047 9 • 




SCENES FROM CRANFORD 



ARRANGED BY 



Charlotte Crowninshield Browne 



Published by 
Charlotte Crowninshield Browne, 



\%^<h-fy^^^ 



THIS BOOK 

18 THE PKOPERTT 

OF 

CHARLOTTE C. BROWNE, 

SALEM, MASS. 



^ 



SCENES FROM CRANFORD 



-Laj^ ». 



ARRANGED BY 



Charlotte Crowninshield Browne 



Published by 

Charlotte Crowninshield Browne, 

salem, mass. 



U b c S a Ic m (press, 
SALEM, MASS. 



i' 



THIS BOOK 

IS THE PROPERTV 



Charlotte C. Browne, 
salem, mass. 






2460 



Copyrighted by 

Charlotte Crowninshield Browne. 

January, i8q8. 



SCENES FROM CR AN FORD 

Characters. 



Mary Smith. 

Miss Mattie. 

Miss Dkbohah. 

Mrs. Jamieson. 

Miss Pole. 

Mi>s Brown (invalid). 

Jessie Brown. 

Martha. 

Capt. Brown. 

hol brook. 

Peter. 

Jem Hearn. 



Scene I. 



[_Card j)arty at Miss Jenkyns house. Miss M., Miss D., 
Miss P., Mrs. i.., playing at Preference. Mary S. nearby ivatch- 
ing the game. Play a few turns in silence.'] 

Miss P. Presto, Madam ! You have Spadille I believe. 

Mrs. J. {surprised). Spadille or Manille ? Pardon me, I 
was thinking about Miss Betty Barker's Alderney. 

Mary S. What is it about Miss Betty's Alderney? 

Miss P. Haven't you heard of Miss Betty's Alderney? 
Why, she looks upon her cow as a daughter. 

Mrs. J. You can't call on her a quarter of an hour without 
being told of the wonderful milk or wonderful intelligence of 
this animal. The whole town knows Miss Betty's Alderney. 

0) 



Miss p. Oh, dear! Great were the sympathy and regret 
when, in an unguarded moment, the poor cow tumbled inti) a 
limepit. 

Mxss M. But she moaned so loudly she was soou rescued. 

Miss D. Yes, but meanwhile the poor beast had lost most 
of her hair and came out looking cold and miserable in a bare 
skin. 

IMiss P. Everybody pitied the animal, but some of us had 
to smile at her droll appearance. 

Mks. J. Miss Betty Barker absolutely cried with sorrow 
and dismay and it was said she thought of trying a bath of oil. 

Miss P. This remedy was recommended by some one of the 
number whose advice she asked I suppose, but the proposal 
was knocked on the head by Capt. Brown, lie said get her a 
flannel waistcoat and drawers if you wish to keep the cow alive, 
ma'am, but my advice is to kill the animal at once. Miss Betty 
dried her eyes and thanked the Captain heartily. She set to 
work and by and by {greathi amused) all the town turned out 
to see the Alderney meekly going to her pasture, clad in dark 
grey flannel. Do you ever see cows dressed in grey flannel in 
London ? 

Mart S. (shal-es her head and laiKjh.s). Oh ! no, no, no ! 

(Ladies resume cards.) 

Mrs. J. Speaking of Capt. Brown, what do you think of 
his behavior? 

Mary S. What has Capt. Brown done? 

Mrs. J. Why, one Sunday morning not long ago, as he 
was coming out of church — 

Miss M. {interrupUn(i) . It was three weeks ago last Sunday, 
I remember. It was so slippery I thought I should never o-et 
home again. 

Mrs. J. I was saying as Capt. Brown was coming out of 
church, he met an old woman returning from her baive-house 
carrying her baked mutton and potatoes home. What should 
Capt. Brown do but stop up and, relieving the old lady of her 
burden, steer along the street by her side. 



Miss D. So very eccentric ! 

Miss P. I'm sure I thought he would call on his friends the 
next day to explain anil apologize for his impropriety, but he 
did no such thing. 

Miss D. Then he must have been ashamed. 

Miss M. After all it showed great kindness of heart. 

Mks. J. Well, yes ! We did think so and decided to over- 
loolc it, but the next time we saw him he didn't seem in the least 
ashamed ; he came speaking as loud as ever, his head thrown 
back, his wig as jaunty and as well curled as usual and now we 
believe he has forgotten all about it. 

\_Rinri at hell. Enter Capt. Bkown aynl danghters from 
ri/jht. Miss M. devotes herself to Miss B's comfort. 
Capt. assists. Martha brings in tea-trat/. Mary 
pours tea. Capt, B. passes cups toladies. Jessik helps 
Miss P. with Shetland, wools. Murmurs of conversa- 
tion among the people.'] 

Capt. B. (draiving out magazine). Have you seen any 
numbers of the Pickwick Papers? Ca|)ital things. 

Miss D. {drawing up for a challenge). Yes, I have seen 
them. Indeed, I might say I have read them. 

Capt. B. And what do you think of them? Aren't they 
famously good? 

Miss D. {confused). I must say I don't think they are by any 
means equal to Dr. Johnson. St ill, perhaps the author is young. 
Let him persevere and who knows what lie may become if he 
will take the great Doctor for his model ! 

Capt. B. {vnth displeasure, interrupting). It is quite a 
different sort of thing, my dear madam. 

Miss D. I am quite aware of that, and T make allowances 
Capt. Brown. 

Capt. B. Just allow me to read you a scene out of this 
month's number. I had it onl}' this morning and I don't think 
the company can have read it yet. 



Miss D. (stipli/). As you please, sir. 

[Capt. B reads the account of the *■' sivarrj/" ivhich Sam 
Weller gave at Bath, or any short account of Picl- 

wick.^ 

Miss I). (fHrnsfo Maky tvith di'jnft}/}. Fetch me Rasselas, 
my dear, out of the book-room. [Maky S. hringa hoo'k.'] Now 
allow me to read you a scene, then the present company can 
judge between your favorite Mr. Boz and IJr. Johuson. 

iReads a conversation between Rasselas and Imlac in a high 
pitched voice. ^ 

{Sloivly and distinctly). I imagine I am now justified in ni}' 
preference of Dr. Johnson as a writer of fiction." [Captain 
screws np his lips and drums on table/] I consider it vulgar 
and below the dignity of literature to publish in numbers. 

Capt. B. How was the Rambler puljlished, ma'am? |_iMiss 
Deborah ignores the remark.] I should be very sorry for him 
to exchange his style for any such pompous writiug. 

Miss D. My friends consider my epistolary writings my 
forte, and Dr. Johnson has always been my model in these 
compositions. \^D raws herself up with dignity giving emphasis 
to every word.] I prefer Dr. Johnson to Mr. Boz. 

Capt. B. {rather lout) . D — n Dr. Johnson. 

\_Pauses, then goes forward offering her wine and cakes. 
Miss D. refuses all attention. Other ladies, except 
Mary S., talk in lovj voices to each other casting awe- 
struck glances at Miss Deborah.] 

Mary S. (aside). Poor dear Miss Deborah! Many a copy 
of many a letter have I seen written and corrected on her 
slate, before she seized the half hour just previous to post-tiuie 
to assure her friends of this or of that. And Dr. Johnson 
was, as she has said, her model in these compositions. 

{Laughs softly.) 

Curtain. 



Scene II. 

\^Aftenioo)i. Caii<Ues the same height on table. Miss M. 
ii)ith si(jns of mourning on sofa. Enter Mary S. fi'om right 
with satchel, etc., sits near her.^ 

Mary S. I am so glad to come to you dear Miss ]\Iattie. 
I am so sorry, dear, praj' don't cry. What can I do for you? 

Miss M. {crying). Poor Deborah! 

Makv. Miss Deborah was a high minded woman, Miss 
Mattie. You have reasons to be proud of her. 

Miss M. Yes ! Deborah was so high-minded. 

Mary. And I know you honored your sister ; you have 
notiiing to regret surely. 

Miss M. I did many a thing she did not like I'm afraid, 
and now she is gone. 

Mary. Dear Miss Mattie! 

( Taking her hand and caressing her. Miss M. jtuts down 
her handkerchief.) 

Miss M. My dear, I rather you did not call me Mattie. 
She did not like it. If you please, my love, will you call me 
Matilda ? 

Maky {snrprised and hesitating over the name). I will try 
dear Miss Matilda, but it will be very hard indeed, we are all 
so fond of Miss Mattie you know. (Gives her a caress.) 

Miss M. — For Deborah's sake, my dear. 

(Mary leaves vjith satchel, etc. Returns tvith bonnet off.) 

Miss M. Have you room enough, dear? I don't know ex- 
actly how my sister used to arrange things. She had capital 
methods. I am sure she would have trained a servant in a 
week to make a better fire than this. Martha is slow at learn- 
ing I feiir. [Arranges the fire, takes a letter from mantle shelf. '\ 
1 have received a letter from a cousin who has been twenty 
or thirty years in India, he has returned to England with an 
invalid wile who has never been introduced to her English 



relations. He wishes to spend a night here on his way to Scot- 
laud. He says he will stop at the Inn if it does not suit nie to 
have him here, and come in the daytime to visit. Of course it 
must suit me to have him here. All Cranford knows that 
Deborah's bedroom is at lil)erty. Oli I 1 wish he had stoi)ped 
in India and forgotten his relations. 

How can I manage? If Deborah had been alive, xhc would 
have known what to do with gentlemen visitors. \_Tnrnn to 
Mary S.] Must I put razors in his dressing-room? Dear! 
dear! and I've got none — Deborah would have had them. 
And slippers and coat-brushes? 

Mary. I think, Miss Matilda, he will bring all these things 
witli him. 

Miss M. And after dinner ! How am I to know when to 
get up and leave him to his wine? Deborah would have done 
it so well. She would have been quite in her element. Will he 
want coffee, do yon think? 

Mary. I will manage the coffee. Miss Matilda, if you like, 
and instruct Martha in the art of waiting a little. Major and 
Mrs. Jenkyns will understand the quiet manner in which a lady 
lives by herself in a country town. 

Miss M. Thank you dear, thank you. I will speak to 

Martha. 

{Exit, n'fihf.) 
(Enter Miss Pole, left.) 

Miss P. How do you do, Mary? 

{Kisses her on both cheeks, (jives her a prolonged f/reetint/.) 

Mary. I am glad to see you Miss Pole. Miss INIattie has 
gone to speak with Martha and attend to some housekeeping, I 
think. Poor thing! She is very, very sad indeed. 

Miss P. If Matty had only married Thomas Holbiook. 

Mary. Had Miss Mattie ever an offer? 

Miss P. Why, certainly. A cousin of mine, once or twice 
removed, offered himself to Mattie, long years ago. 

Mary. How came Miss M. not to marry him? 

Miss P. — Oh! I don't know. She was willing enough I 



think; but you know cousin Thomas would not have been 
enough of a gentleman for the rector and Miss Jenkyns. 

Mary. Well, but they were not to marry him. 

Miss p. No, but they did not like to have Miss Mattie 
marry below her rank. You know siie was the rector's daugh- 
ter and somehow they are related to Sir Peter Arley. Miss 
Jenkyns thought a deal of that. 

Mary. Poor Miss Mattie ! 

Miss P. I don't know anything more than that he offered 
and was refused. 

Mary. Has she ever seen him since? 

Miss P. Only once or twice. Recently, when I was walk- 
ing with Miss Mattie in High street, she suddenly darted up 
Shire Lane. A few minutes after I was startled by meeting 
Cousin Thomas. That's the fiist time I know of in all these 
years. The other day he met her in the shop and seemed so 
glad to see her. He called her Mattie, and walked home with 
her, bidding her good-bye at the gate. He said something to 
me about asking us over to Woodley, his farm, to spend the 
day. He never traded in Cranford after Mattie refused him. 

Mary. Do you think Miss Mattie will go to Woodley ? 

Miss P. Why, yes, indeed, she will. 

{Enter Miss M. with note, right.) 

Miss M. Here is a note from Mr. Holbrook, asking us to 
spenil a day with him this week. But I can't go, of course. 

Mary. Why, Miss Mattie! You, Miss Pole and I, would 
have a delightful time. Indeed we should. 

Miss M. Oh, no! It would seem highly improper for me to 
accept a gentleman's invitation. 

Miss P. But there are two other ladies to accompany you, 
my dear. 

Miss M. Well, yes, surely, you and Mary will be with me. 
But it seems so strange. I am not used to accepting gentle- 
men's invitations. 



8 

Mary. I will write a note for yon accepting, Miss Mattie. 

Miss M. Thank you, dear. But, oh ! Deb5rah would not 
have liked me to go. No, I cannot, Deboi-ah always knew so 
well wiiat was right. 

Mary. But Miss I3eborah had good judgment and I am 
sure she would think that Miss Pole and I have good judgment. 

Miss M. Yes, my dear. I i-emember Deborah quite approved 
of you. I think she would consider that yon have good judg- 
ment. You may write for me if you please. [Mary zvrites.^ 
We will go on Thursday. 

Mary. I will call Martha — or perhaps Miss Pole, you will 
kindly post this letter. 

Miss P. Certainly — Good-bye, INIiss ^Mtittie, I am sure we 
shall have a pleasant time on Thursday. 

{Exit.) 

Miss M. Will you get my caps, dear, and see which you 
think is most suitable for a visit to Woodley? 

Mart. I have brought a cap for you from my milliner in 
Drumble. 

Miss M. Is it a turban, inydear? I have heard that turbans 
are quite the style to be worn and I think I should like a turban. 

Mary. Oh, no ! it's not a turban. I don't think a great Sara- 
cen's head-dress would be l)ecoming to 3'our gentle face Miss 
Mattie. Allow me to get it, I hope you will like it 

(Mary brings c(q>, ti(rns if (wound back and front.) 

Miss M. (with disappointment) . I am sure you did your best, 
my dear, it is just like the caps all the ladies in Cranford are 
wearing and they have had theirs for a year, I dare say. I 
should have liked something newer I confess. Something more 
like the turbans Queen Adelaide wears ; but it is very pretty, 
my dear, and I dare say lavender will wear better than sea-green. 

(Mary takes seiving from little bag. Maitik puts cap on top 
of her own. Speaks sadly.) 

Well! after all, what is dress that we should care about it? 
You tell me if you want anything, my dear. Here is the bell. 
1 suppose turbans have not got down to Drumble yet. You 



will excuse me, I have been looking over some of my mother's 
things and I should like to put them away before dark. 

{Exit.) 

(Mary looks up, spies the two caps, hat suppresses her 
amusement until Mtss Matiie has f/one, then laughs. 
Mary leans touxnxl the firelight to see.) 

Mauy. I should so like to ring for a candle but I suppose I 
shall have to wait until Martha brings one in with tea. I have 
often noticed that almost every one has his own individual 
small economies — careful habits of saving in souie one pecul- 
iar direction. I do believe that Miss Mattie's pet economy is 
candles. 

{Enter Miss Mattie with package of letters.) 

Maky. May I ring the bell for the candles that I may see 
to finish stitching my wristbands? 

Miss M. My dear, I think we will keep blind-man's holiday, 
until Martha brings them in with tea. [Mary still sews by 
firelight.'] After tea I should like to have you look over some 
old family letters with me. I think that we may look over 
them together and you can help me decide what to do with them. 

Maky. I will with all my heart, Miss Mattie ; perhaps we 
might ring for tea early and liave a long evening before us. 

{Rings bell, Martha appears.) 

Miss M. You may bring ihe candles in Martha, we will 
have tea a little early to-night. 

Mary. And Martha — 

Martha. Ma'am! 

Mary. Remind me that I want to speak with you in the 
morning about some visitors who are to come here in a few 
days. 

Miss M. Yes, she wants to tell you how to pass the vegeta- 
bles round and help the ladies first. 

Martha. I'll do as ye tell me ma'am, but I like the lads 

best. 

{Exit.) 



10 

Miss M. Oh, Martha ! Martha ! 

{Enter Martha vitli tea and candles on trai/ one candle 
lighted, places them on table, drcuvs Miss M's chair to t(d)le.) 

You may bring in some oranges, Man ha. Miss Marv and 
1 may like one in our rooms this evening. 

{Re-enters ?vith two oranges on tray.) 

Mary. I will have mine now, I think, Miss Mattie. 

Miss M. Deborah would have been so displeased to have 
me eat my orange at the table. After dessert we used to take 
our oranges to our room and suck them. She did not like to 
cut the fruit, for the juice ran out no one knows where and that 
seemed so very wasteful. She said sucking (only I think she 
used some other word than sucking) was the only way to enjoy 
oranges, but the association is very unpleasant and the noise is 
very offensive. 

Mary. O Miss Mattie ! do sit here and enjoy your orange 
as you like best. Miss Deborah won't mind now Never 
mind the noise, and, see ! I will hold up a screen. 

{Takes her fan for screen and begins to bite her orange.) 

Miss M. Oh, no ! my dear, I will wait until I go to my room, 
I think. 

Mary. Then I will eat mine later also. 

[Places orange one side. Martha enters to take tea 
things. They resume seats near fire. Mary on foot- 
titool. Miss M. examines the packages closeli/, selects 
one bnndle.~\ 

Miss M. These are ticketed in Deborah's hand writing. 

{Recuis.) 

" Letters interchanged between my ever-honored father and 
dearly beloved mother prior to their marriage in -hily, 1774." 
My mother was just eighteen at the time of her wedding, my 
father about twenty-seven. Slie seems to have been asking my 



11 

father (of course that's before he was my father then) to use 
his influence with her parents to buy her a new Paduasoy< 
whatever that may be. I suppose he did, though he used to 
tell her he cared nothing how she was dressed, she was always 
lovely enough for him. And here's one from father. He must 
have loved mother dearly. Only he uses so much Latin and 
Johnsonian style — Deborah used to call it — that they're hard 
to read. But he sends her lots of finery and tells her he hopes 
she may be dressed in everything her heart desires. We must 
burn them, no one will care for them when I am gone. 

Ah! here is another docketed by Deborah. "Letters of 
pious congratulation and exhortation from my venerable grand- 
father to my beloved mother, on occasion of my own biith." 
That's Deborah. 

And this contains many instructions to my mother, and a 
warning against the evils in the world lying in wait for a baby. 
He says his wife could not write, as he had forbidden it, she 
having sprained her ankle, which quite incapacitated her from 
holding her pen. But liere's a short note from my grand- 
mother: "To my dearest MoUie, begging her that when she 
leaves her room, to go upstairs before she goes down, and be 
sure and wrap the baby's feet in flannel, althougli it is summer, 
babies are so tender." 

{Pauses, tears up and puts ou thejire, takes another.) 

Here is another of dear mother's : " My dear mother ! I wish 
you could see my baby. She is the prettiest little thing that 
ever was seen. Without any partiality I do believe she will 
grow up to be a regular beauty. 1 have made the white 
' Paduasoy ' into a christening cloak." 

Mary. This one is from your mother to your father : "Deb- 
orah has sewed her seam very neatly every day, and I have 
read to her in the books you have sent. She is a very ' forrard ' 
o'ood child, and asks questions I can't answer. So I usually stir 
the fire or send the child ou an errand. Little Mattie is grow- 
ino- to be a great beauty. 1 hope she may not grow up to be 
vain even if she is a little beauty." 

(Pats Miss M. on knee and looks into her face, smiling.) 



12 

Miss M. I had ver}' pretty hair, my dear, and not a bad 
mouth. Peter looked something like me when he was little. 
He was born soon after father published his assize sermon, and 
grandmother died just before. And grandfather wrote such a 
letter describing all the sin into which men might fall, that I 
wonder how any man ever came to die a natural death. 

Maky. But here is one. Miss Mattie, it begins: " Mother, 
dear, do send me a cake, and put plenty of citron in it. My 
dear, dear mother, I will be a 1 tetter boy, I will indeed, but 
don't please he ill for me, I am not worth it ; buL I will be good, 
darling mother !" 

(Maky and Mattie weep. Maitik takes the letter.) 

Miss M. Poor Peter! he was always in scrapes, he was too 
easy : they led him wrong and left him in the lurch. But he 
was too fond of mischief. He could never resist a joke. Poor 
Peter ! 

Mary. Was he your brother? I never knew you had a 
brother. 

Miss M. Yes, Peter Marmaduke Arley Jenkyns. The 
youngest of us all. Yes, Peter was a dear boy, he was mother's 
darling, though of course she doted on all her children. Tho' 
she was perhaps a little afraid of Deborah's superior accom- 
plishments. Deborah was father's [speakiiuj to Mary] favorite 
and after Peter disappointed him she was his pride. Peter was 
expected to win honors at Shrewsbury and carry them to Cam- 
bridge and after that a living awaited him, the gift of his god- 
father. Sir Peter Arley. Alas ! the only honor Peter brought 
away was the reputation of being the best good fellow that ever 
was, the captain of the school in the art of practical joking. Of 
course father could not afford to send Peter to read with a tu- 
tor, but he could read with him himself ; and such awful prepa- 
rations in the way of dictionaries and lexicons that were made 
in father's study the morning Peter began ! My poor mother I I 
remember how she used to stand in the iiall just near enough 
to the study door to catch the tone of my father's voice. 1 
could tell in a moment if all were going well by her face. And 
all did go well for a Ions: time. 



13 

Mary. What went wrong at last? That tiresome Latin, I 
dare sa^'. 

Miss M. No, it was not the Latin. Peter worked well with 
father. But he seemed to think Craiiford people could be joked 
about. He was always "hoaxing" them. Hoaxing is not a 
pretty word, my dear. I hope you won't tell your father 1 
used it. 

Mary. Oh ! no, no. 

Miss M. For I should not like him to think that 1 was not 
choice in my language after living with such a woman as Deb- 
orah. Be sure you never use it yourself. But it slipped out 
of my mouth thinking of poor Peter. I could laugh thinking 
of some of Peter's jokes. But I won't tell you of them. 

Mary. Oh ! please do. 

Miss M. Because I fear they may not shock you as they 
ought to do and they were very shocking. He even took my 
father in once. He dressed up as a lady passing through the 
town and wished to see the Rector of Cranford who had pub- 
lished that adminible "Assize Sermon." Peter was awfully 
frightened when he found how my lather took it all in and even 
offered to copy out all his Napoleon Buonaparte sermons for 
her — him I mean, no — her, for Peter was a lady then. And so 
my father kept Peter hard at work copying out all those twelve 
sermons for the lady, who was Peter himself you know. He 
was the lady. And once, when he wanted to go fishing he said 
"confound the woman !" very bad language, and my father was 
very angry with him ; it nearly frightened me out of my wits. 
And yet 1 could hardly keep from laughing at the little courte- 
sies Peter kept making quite slyly whenever father spoke of 
the lady's excellent taste and sound discrimination. 

Mary. Did Miss Jenkyns know of these tricks? 

Miss M. Oh, no ! Deborah would have been too much 
shocked. No, no one knew but me. At last there was a ter- 
rible sad thing happened. 

( Gets up, goes to the door, peers round, rings the bell for Martha.) 

{Enter Martha.) 



14 

Martha. Ma'am. 

Miss M. I want you to go to the farm for some eofgs, Mar- 
tha. You are not afraid to go, are you? 

Martha. No, ma'am, not at all. Jem Ilearu will be only too 
proud to go with me. 

Miss M. Very well, I will lock the door after you. 

{Goes out.) {Re-enters.) 

I do wish iNIartha had more maidenly reserve. We'll put out 
the candle my dear, we can talk just as well by firelight, you 
know. There I Well, you see Deborah was gone from home 
for a fortnight or so. My father had gone out to see some sick 
persons in the parish. It was a beautiful day; the lilacs were 
all in flower, so I suppose it was spring. What possessed our 
poor Peter I don't know. He always liked to plague Deborah ; 
perhaps it was because she never gave him any sympathy. 
She thought him very ungenteel and never laugiied at his jokes. 

He went to her room it seems, and di'essed himself in her 
old gown and shawl and bonnet and he dressed a pillow into a 
little — you are sure you locked the door my dear — I should 
not like anyone to hear — into — into a little baby, with long 
white clothes, and he went out into the garden and wnlked u[) 
and down in the Filbert walk half hidden by the rails, and half 
seen. When my father came up the street he saw the crowd 
and thought they were looking at his new rhododendron. That 
made him feel very proud and he was going to ask them in to 
the garden to see it. When he came nearer he looked through 
the rails himself and saw — 1 don't know what he thought he 
saw. But oh ! he spoke out so terribly — lie bade tiiem all to 
stop where they were Then as quick as light he was in the 
garden — seized hold of poor Peter, tore the clothes off his back, 
bonnet, shawl and gown — threw the pillow among the people 
over the railings and then before all the people he lifted up his 
cane and flogged Peter. That trick broke my mother's heart 
and changed my father's life. 

Peter came in looking as haughty as any man, indeed looking 
like a man not a boy. " Mother," he said, " I am come to say. 



15 

God bless you forever." I saw his lips quiver as he spoke, he 
put his arms lound her and kissed her as if he did not know 
how to leave off. Then he was gone. Mother went to talk 
with my father ; soon she came back and began wandering from 
room to room calling ''Peter" softlj'. Then father began to join 
in the search, then we knew that Peter ivas gone and had said 
his sad good-bye to mother. "Mollie," said my father, "I did 
not know this would happen." 

Mart. Where was Mr. Peter? 

Miss M, He had gone to Liverpool. Some of the king's 
ships lay off the mouth of the Mersey and as there was war 
they were only too glad to have a fine looking lad such as he 
come to offer himself. The captain wrote to my father and 
Peter to mother. 

{K)iork.) 

Miss M. That's Martha back. 

(Maky rises to (jo to the door.) 

No, I'll go my dear, I can always find my way in the dark, 
you know. And a blow of fresh air at the door will do my 
head good, it's rather got a trick of aching. 

{Exit.) 

(Mary lights the candle. Kissing heard outside.) 
{Enter Maitik.) 

Mary. Was it Martha? 

Miss M. Yes. And I am rather uncomfortable for 1 [fright- 
ened^ heard such a strange noise, just as I was opening the 
door. 

Mary {someivhat alarmed). Where? 

Miss M. In the street, just outside, it sounded like — 

iMarv. Talking? 

Miss M. No ! kissing. [Mary laughs aJoud.^ I 

think we will retire now, so we will go our round and see that 
all is right for the night. 

(Miss M. takes candle and poker. Mary, Jire brush.) 

{Exit, left.) 



16 

{Re-enter, right, followed by Martha, with Jiretongs and 
shovel, makes accidental yioise, tvhich startles cdl. Look 
round.) 

All. What's that? Oh! the fire tongs. 

Miss M. How trying it is to settle down for the night! I 
confess, ever since I was a girl I have had a dread of being 
caught by my last leg just as I am getting into bed, by some 
one concealed under it. When I was younger and more active I 
used to take a flying leap from a distance and so bring both legs 
up safely into bed at once. Hut this annoyed Deborah, wlio 
always piqued herself upon getting into bed gracefully. Even 
now the terror often comes over me, but it is very unpleasant 
to think of looking under a bed and seeing a man concealed 
with a great, fierce face staring out at you. [^4/^ huddle together 
looking frightened ; Jire tongs rattle.'] So that's why I always 
use this ball every night. If it comes out on the other side 
you see, well and good [vo/Zn ball under sof(( ;] if not, I seize 
the bell and call John and Harry, just as if I expect men ser- 
vants to appear. 

Maky. You are very ingenious, Miss Mattie. I shall have 
no fear of alarm with you. \_Lond rattle of fire tovgs.j 

All. WhMt'sthat? Oh ! the fire tong.s. 

Curtain. 



SCKNE HI. 

[Miss M.'s rooin. Miss M. on sofa and Mary /n chair to 
right. Enter Mr. Holbrook, left. Greets ladies, sits in chair, 
puts open palms on knees and whistles.] 

Ladies. We are glad to see you. (Pause.) 

H. Got home safely the other evening? 

Miss M. (shyly). Yes, oh! yes. Very safely. (Pause.) 

H. Pleasant weather we're having. 

Miss M. Yes, oh! yes. T am sure, very pleasant. 

(H. whistles, rubs his knees.) 



17 

H. Hope your well, madam. 

Miss M. Certainly, very well. I am quite well, 

Mary. We had a delightful day at your farm, Mr. Holbrook. 
It is a very pleasant place. 

H. Yes, oh ! yes. Well, you lemember the color of ash-buds 
in March? Black as ash-ltuds in March! Old fool that I am 
not to have known it until I read it in that young man's book of 
poems ; and lived all my life in the country. Black as ash-buds, 
indeed. [^Jnmps up quickly, turns to Miss M.] Well, madam, 
have you any commands for Paris? I am going there in a week 
or two. 

Ladies. To Paris? 

H. Yes, madam, I've never lieen tliere and always had a 
wish to go. and I think if I do not go soon 1 mayn't go at all. 
So as soon as the hay is got in I shall go, before harvest time. 

Miss M. I don't believe frogs will agree with you, you used 
to have to be veiy careful what you ate. 

H. Well, I've lived to a pretty good age, Mattie \^7\irns 
Jiis hat and pauses before Aer.] God bless my soul, madam, 
but I nearly forgot half m}' errand. Here are the poems for 
you, you admired so much the other evening. 

Miss M. Yes, it was such a pretty book. 

H. Pretty, madam ! it's beautiful, pretty, indeed ! 

Miss M. Oh, yes ! I meant beautiful. It's like the beauti- 
ful poems of Dr. Johnson's, my sister used to read. I forget 
the name of it. What was it, my dear? 

Mary. Which one do you mean? 

Miss M. I don't remember what it was about, and I've quite 
forgotten what the name of it was, but it was written by Dr. 
Johnson and was very beautiful. 

H. (reflectively). I don't remember it. But I don't know 
Dr. Johnson's poems well. I must read them. [^Whistles.^ 
Well, I must be off. Good-bye, Miss. And Matlie [takes her 
hand] good-bye. God bless you ! 

{Exit left, followed by Mattie. Mary goes out, right.) 



18 
{Re-enter Miss M. irith shawl on, followed by M Amu a, from left.) 

Mariha. To think, dear ma'am, of your going to the door 
with such a thin shawl ; it's no better than muslin. [Takes it 
from Mattie's shoulders and folds <Y.] At your age. ma'am, 
yon should be more careful. 

Miss M. {crossly). My age! My age! why, how old do 
you think I am, that yon should talk about my age? 

Martha. Well, ma'am. I shonld say you are not far short 
of sixty; but folks' looks is often against them and I am snre 
I meant no harm. 

Miss M. Martha, I'm not yet fiftj^-two. [Miss Mattik goes 
to table, Martha gazes at her. courtesies low and tarvs to de- 
part.'] Martha [gendy] you are young. (J^iiise.) 

Martha. Yes, please, ma'am, two and twenty last third of 
October, ma'am. 

Miss IVr. And perhaps, Martha, you may sometime meet with 
a young man you like and who likes you. I did sa}" you were 
not to have followers ; but if you meet with such a young man 
and tell me and I find he is respectable, I have no objections to 
his coming to see you once a week. 

Martha. Please ma'am, there's Jem Hearn, and he's a 
joiner, making three and six pence a day, please ma'am, and if 
you " ax " about him to-morrow morning every one will give 
him a character for ''stiddyuess," and he'll be glad enough to 
come to-morrow night I'll be bound. (Courtesies.) 

Miss M. Very well, Martha. 

(Martha, exit.) 

(Mattie goes to table, takes book, kisses it and places it 
on Bible.) 

God forbid that I stand between any young hearts! 
Curtain. 



19 



Scene IV. 

[Miss M., sitting at desk to left of stage looking over ac- 
coiints.^ 

Miss M. Poor Thomas ! I am afraid the trip was too much 
for him. I've been thinking had he lived I could have asked 
his advice in this matter. 

{Enter Mary slowly^ ivith letter in hand.) 

Mary, do you know I meant to buy a cap like Mrs. Jamie- 
son's this morning, but I cannot afford it now ; for, if the bank 
goes wrong, I shall lose one hundred and foi*ty-nine pounds 
thirteen shillings and fourpence a year. 1 shall have only 
thirteen pounds a year left. I hope it is not wrong, not wicked, 
but oh ! I am so glad Deborah is spared this. She could not 
have borne to come down in the world. She had such a noble, 
lofty spirit. 

I shall have but live shillings a week to live upon \^weeps'] 
but I am not crying for myself, dear. I believe 1 am crying for 
the thought of how my mother would grieve if she could know. 
She always cared for us so much more than for herself. 

Mary. Why did 30U give those sovereigns for that man's 
note this morning? 

Miss M. Why, it was only common honesty in me as a share- 
holder to have given this good man the money. I am quite 
clear about it in my own mind. 1 was loth to make another 
one lose instead of me. You see five pounds is a deal of mon- 
ey to a poor man with a famil}'. 

Mary. Well, Miss Mattie, shall you feel it your duty to 
offer sovereigns for all the notes of the Town and County Bank 
you meet with ? 

Miss M. {sadly). I never feel as if my mind was what people 
call very strong, and it's often hard enough work for me to 
settle wliat I ought to do with the case right before me, but 1 
believe I had rather wait and see what really does come ; and I 



20 

don't doubt but I shall be helped then, if I don't fidget my- 
self and get too anxious beforehand. 

It doesn't seem like this morning I was planning to go to see 
the fashions. I remember I said it was not etiquette to go till 
after twelve ; but then you see all Cranford would have been 
there and one does not like to be too curious about dress and 
trimmings and caps with all tlie world looking on. Deborah 
had the knack of always looking as if the latest fashion was 
nothing new to her — a manner she caught from Lady Arley 
who did see all the new modes in London you know. And, there ! 
I was going down to see exactly how my new silk gown must 
be made. 

Mary. But I had set my heart on your having a new silU. 
Mixs M. Well, you see, it would give me added trouble to 
care for it. so I think I'll go without it my dear. \_Smooths her 
old flress. Takes up letter.'] And here is the letter asking me 
to attend the meeting of the Town and County Bank to be held 
ill Drumlile on Thursday the twenty-first. I am sure I thought 
it very attentive for them to remember me, but if it came to 
accounts I should be quite in the way, for I never could do sums 
in my head \_clrums on deskj ; but many a |)oor person lias less 
and I am not very extravagant, and thank God I when the neck 
of mutton, and Martha's wages and the rent are paid I have not 
a farthing owing. Poor Martha ! I think she'll be sorry to leave 
me. I really must tell her ; but she must go to-day before I be- 
gin to owe her more. 

(Rather iveaMy totters to the door.) 
Maky. I wonder what poor Miss Mattie can do ! I must 
send for father at once to come over and help us to plan. 
She cannot play the piano, so she cannot teach little children. 
Really, what can she do ! 

(Martha, bursting in crying, does not observe Mary.) 

Martha. Surely, what does all this mean I I'll never leave 

her ; no, I won't. 1 telled her so, and said I could not think how 

she could find it in her heart to give ine warning. I could not 

have had the face to do it, if I'd been lier. I might have been 



31 

just as good for nothing as Mrs. Fitz Adam's Rosy, \vIio struck 
for wages after living seven years and a half in one place. I 
said I was not one to go and serve Mammon at that rate ; that 
I knew when I got a good missus, if she didn't know when 
she got a good servant. 

Maky. But Martha — 

(Mahtiia looks round surprised and stamps.) 

Martha. Don't " but Martha" me. 

Mary. Listen to reason. 

Martha. I'll not listen to reason. Reason always means 
what some one else has got to say. Now I think what I've got 
to say is good enough reason ; but, reason or not, I'll say it aud 
I'll stick to it. I've money in the Savings Hank and I've a 
good stock of clothes and I'm not going to leave Miss Mnttie. 
No, not if she gives me warning every hour in the day. 

{Puts arms ali'mbo.) 

Mary. Well. 

Martha. I'm thankful you began with well. If you'd be- 
gun with but as you did afore, I'd not ha' listened to you. Now 
you may go on. 

Mary. 1 know you would be a great loss to Miss Mattie, 
Martha — 

Martha. I telled her so, a loss she would never cease to be 
sorry for. 

Mary. Still, she would have so little, so very little to live 
upon, that I don't see just now how siie could find you food ; 
she will even be pressed for her own. I tell you this because I 
think you are like a friend to Miss Mattie, but you know she 
migiit not like to have it spoken about. [Martha sits down in 
first chair at hand, and cries aloud, j I thought you had not 
understood the worst, Martha. 

{M A Rr HA puts doicn her apron.) 

Martha. Was that the reason Miss Mattie wouldn't order 
pudding today? She said she had no great fancy for sweet 
things, and you and she would just have a mutton chop. But 
I'll be up to her. Never you tell, but I'll make her a pudding 



22 

she'll like, too, and I'll pay for it myself; so mind you see she 

eats it. Many a one has been comforted in their sorrow by 

seeing a good dish come upon the table. She got ahead of me 

to-dav, but I'll get there to-morrow. 

(Exit.) 

{Enter Miss Mattie, ver>/ saiJ, fri/i)i'j to smile.) 

Mary. I have decided to send for father to come over and 
hold a consultation. He can understand your affairs better than 
we can. 

Miss M. Well, I have been thinking and I suppose I can 
hire a single room somewhere, retain as much of my furniture 
as would be necessary to fit this up, and sell the rest. There I 
could quietly live (I know very humbly) on what I have left 
after paying the rent. 

Mary. I have been thinking of your accomplishmenis. 
Perhaps some one of them could be used to increase your in- 
come. 

Miss M. I can make candle lighters or ''spills" as 1 always 
call them, of colored paper, cut so as to resemble feathers and 
I can knit garters in a variety of dainty stitches. 

(Martha enters with tea-tray.) 

Mary. Yes, 1 know you do those beautifully, but you could 
hardly earn a living by those. But, Miss Mattie, I have an 
idea. I believe this tea urn has solved the problem. 

Miss M. How can a tea urn solve any problem? 

Mary. Why could you not sell tea, Miss Mattie? Be an 
agent to the East India Tea Company. I can't see any ob- 
jections while the advantages will be many. Tea is neither 
greasy nor sticky. You won't have to have a shop window. 
True, it would be necessary to have a tiny notice of being 
licensed to sell tea, but I think we could place it where no one 
need see it. And tea would be very light and easy to weigh 
out. I don't think there is anything ungenteel about it. 

(Great struggle and noise heard outside.) 



23 

{Enter Martha dragging behind her .Ikm He\kn ivho is 
slicking dmvn his hair.) 

Martha. Please ma'am, he's only Jem lleani. [^Oxt of 
breath.^ And please, ma'am, he wants to marry me off-hand. 
l^Panting.'] And please, ma'am, we want to take a lodger, just 
one quiet lodger to make our two ends meet and we'd take any 
house conformable, and oh! dear Miss Mattie, if I may be so 
bold, would you have any objections to lodging with us? Jem 
wants it as much as i do. \_To Jkm.] You great oaf, why can't 
you back me up? But he does want it just the same, very bad, 
don't you? only you see he's dazed at being called on to speak. 

Jem. It's not that — it's that you've taken me all on a sud- 
den and I didn't think for to get married so soon and such 
quick work does flabbergast a man. It's not that I'm against it 
ma'am, only Martha has such quick ways with her when once 
she takes a notion into her head, and marriage, ma'am, mar- 
riage, nails a man, as one may say. I dare say I shan't mind 
it after it's once over. 

[Martha plucks at his sleeve and nudges him while he 
talks. ^ 

Martha. Please ma'am, don't mind him, he'll come to ; 'twas 
only last night he was an axing me and an axing me and all 
the more because I said I could not think of it for years to 
come, and now he's only taken back with the suddenness of the 
joy. You know Jem. you are just as good as me about want- 
ing a lodger. {Another great nudge.) 

Jem. Ay! If Miss Mattie would lodge with us, otherwise 
I've no mind to be cumbered with strange folk in the house. 

(Marteia enraged.) 

Miss M. {confused). Marriage is a very solemn thing, 
Martha 

Jem {shakes his head). It is indeed. Not that I've no ob- 
jections to Martha. 

Martha. You've never let me be for axing me to name the 



24 

day when I would be married and now you're shaming me afore 
my missus and all — 

Jem. Nay, now ! Martha don't ee ! don't ee ! only a man 
likes to have breathing time. 

(Tries to take her hand hvt Martha pushes him (tiiHiy.) 

Jem. I hope, ma'am, you know I am always bound to re- 
spect every one who has been kind to Martha. I've alius 
looked upon her to be my wife sometime, and she has often 
spoken of you as being the kindest person who ever was and 
though the plain truth is I would not like to be troubled with 
lodgers of the common run, yet ma'am, if you'd houor us by 
living with us, I'm sure Martha would do the best to make you 
comfortable ; and I'd keep out of your way as much as I could, 
which I reckon would be the greatest kindness such an awkward 
chap as me could do. 

(Mattie wipes spectacles.) 

Miss M. Don't let any thought of me hurry you into mar- 
riage — pray don't — marriage is such a very solemn thing. 

Mary. But Miss Matilda will think of your plan, Martha. 
And I'm sure neither she nor I can ever forget your kindness — 
nor 3'ours either, Jem. 

Jem. Wh3% yes, ma'am, I'm sui'e 1 meant kindly, though I'm 
a bit fluttered at being pushed straight ahead into matrimony, 
as it were, and may'nt express myself conformably. But I'm 
willing enough and give me time to get accustomed — So Mar- 
tha, wench, what's the use of crying and slapping me if I come 
near. 

(Martha weeps and bounces out of room followed by Jem 
chasing her. Mattie sits dovm and cries heartily. 
Mary wipes eyes.) 

Curtain. 



25 



SCENK V. 



[Same room, with tea canister, tumblers of candy, pepper- 
mints and lozenges, scales, etc., on tables. Gifts of fresh 
eggs, flofvers, ripe fruit, on counter or table. Miss 
Mattie sits knitting and crooning a little song behind 
table to left. Enter Maky to rigid, goes to slate.l^ 

Maky. I fixed the accounts all straight. Do you want me 
to see if the canisters are all right? Do you know, Miss Mat- 
tie, you have made ovei- twenty pounds this last year? 

Miss M. Well, 1 am greatly indebted to INIr. Johnson for 
allowing me to sell tea, too. You know I felt I ought not to 
sell tea when my grocer was selling it too, and he said, you go 
right ahead Miss Jenkyns, sell all \ ou can ; it's surprising how 
much tea people drink. 1 have urged my customers not to buy 
green tea. I really have threatened not to keep any, it is a slow 
poison, sure to destroy the nerves. 

Mahy. Just think of the train oil and the tallow candles 
which the Esquimaux not only enjoy, but digest. Miss Mattie, 
I should let the people buy green tea if they want it. 

Miss M. Well. I suppose what's one man's meat is another 
man's poison. You might order some more almond comfits my 
dear, the little things are so fond of them. There are only a 
very few left. 

Mary. But Miss Mattie, we oi'dered so many the other day. 
You will make no profit on them if you give so large weights. 

Miss M. The little things like them so much 

Mary. Almond comfits are very unwholesome for little chil- 
dren. 

Miss M. But peppermmts and ginger lozenges are good 
preventives. I can put some of those in — 

Mary. But Miss Mattie — 

Miss M. I know, my dear, but I will manage this. Some 
one does kind things for me surely, when such gifts as these are 
brought me, and all these came this morning. You shouldn't 
worry about a few almond comfits my dear. 



26 

\_EHter Petkk at door, stands and looks round, eyes Mat- 
TiK eaf/erJ}/, then pretends to hay some candy, drums on 
table aith fingers, eyes Marv S.] 

Pktku. Is your name Mary Smith? 
Mary. Yes, sii'. 

(Pktkk looks round the room.) 
Petkk. I'll take a pound of those things. 
Miss M. {looks up, stojis a moment). It is — oh! sir, can 
you be Peter ? 

(Pktek rushes round the taJ>Je, helps her to sofa.) 
Petek. I have been too sudden for you; I have, my little 
o-irl — too sudden — too sudden. 

{Sobs. ) 

Miss M. And have you come home from India? Oh! 
Peter, I have waited a long, long while for you to come home. 

Peter. How could I tell, dear, when all my letters returned 
to India? 1 never received word except of father's death. 
Perhaps Di'borah did not care to have me come home after 
that. 

Miss M. Deborah used to tell how you were "surveying 
mankind from China to Peru." Were you, Peter? 

Peter. That was very grand and appropriate surely in 
Deborah, for you see she was right if you take care to turn the 
globe to the left instead of tlie right. I always thought Deb- 
orah had a mind for understanding. {Sarcastically.) 

Miss M. {contentedly). She certainly had. But you surveyed 
a very long lime, a very long time, Peter. 

Peter. Yes, you see I was a volunteer in the siege of Ra- 
goon. I was taken prisoner by the Burmese, but somehow ob- 
tained favor and eventually freedom, from knowing how to 
bleed the chief of the small tribe in some case of dangerous 
illness. I was kept captive many years and, when all my letters 
were returned from England, I believed myself the last of my 
race ; so I settled down as an indigo planter and determined to 
spend the rest of m^^ days in India. But when I received 
Mary Smith's letter — 



27 

Miss M. Mary Smith's letter! Why Mary, how did you 
know how to send to my bi other? Why did you not tell me 
that my brother was alive ? 

Mary. Now MissMattie, pray don't be angry; but the wife 
of Samuel Brown, otherwise Signor Brunoni, told me that while 
in India with her husband, who had gone out there first with 
the army, she had received great kindness from a certain man 
whom she called the Aga Jenkyns. I thought I could but try to 
see if it were your brother and wrote asking him to come home 
to you if he were Mr. Peter Jenkyns, your brother, of course. 
And if he were not to be your brother, why no one else would 
care about the letter and it could do no harm. 

Miss M. How kind you are Mary. You have been my best 
friend and you would not tell me because you were afraid he 
might never come back to me. But here is Peter It is Peter 
isn't it — only — well, when you left Cranford you hadn't a 
gray hair in your head. I suppose hot climates age people very 
quickly. 

Petek. But how many years ago is that, Mattie? 

MissM. Ah ! true. Yes, I suppose you and 1 are getting old. 
But still I do not think we are so very old Peter, white hair 
is very becoming. 

Peier. I suppose I forgot dates too, Mattie, for what do 
you think I have brought home for you from India? I have an 
Indian muslin gown and a pearl necklace for you somewhere in 
my chest in Portsmouth. 

Miss M. I'm afraid I'm too old — but it was very kind of 
you to think of it. They are just what I should have liked 
years ago, when I was young. 

Peter. So I thought, my little Mattie ; 1 remember your 
tastes, they were so like my dear mother's. [Sits doivn in chair 
to right.~\ Do you know Mattie, I could have sworn you were on 
the high road to matrimony, when I left England the last time. 
If anybody had told me that you would live and die an old maid, 
then I should have laughed in his face. It was Holbiook, that 
fine manly fellow, who lived at Woodley, that I used to think 



28 

would carry off 1113- sister Mattie. You would not think it now, 
I dare say, Mnry ; but this sister of mine was once a very 
pretty girl — at least I thought so — and so I've a notion did poor 
Holbrook. I came home to thank him for all liis kindness to a 
good-for-nothing cub that I was. It was that, that made me 
first think he cared for you — for in all our fishing expeditions 
it was Mattie. Mattie, we talked about. 

Poor Deborah ! What a lecture she read me, on having asked 
him home to lunch one day, when she had seen tlie Arley car- 
riage in the town and thought that my lady might call. Well, 
that's long years ago, moie than half a life time, and yet it 
seems like yesterday. I don't know a fellow I should have 
liked better for a brother-in-law. Yon must have played your 
cards badly, Mattie — somehow or other. Wanted your brother 
to be a good go-between, eh ! little sister? Why, what's this, 
you're shivering and shaking Mattie, with that confounded open 
window. Shut it Mary, this minute. 

Mary {stoops down, kisses Mattie, shuts trindo/c). You 
must go to bed at once, dear, and we will get you a glass of 
weak negus. 

(Pktek and Mary assist her to her feet. ) 

Pkter. Away with these tea things, Mary! Send them as 
ptesenis to Mattie's friends and give the candy to the children. 
We will not have a tea shop another dav and Mattie shall be 
her own lady again. Poor child ! she has needed me sadly :dl 
these years. 

(Mary holds Miss M's hand.) 

Maky. I hope ever from to-day there will be the old friendly 
sociability in Cranford society because of my dear Miss Mattie's 
love of pence. We all love her and I somehow think we are all 
of us better when she is near ns. 

Curtain. 

P>NI). 



PR 4710 
.C72 B7 
Copy 1 



PR 4710 
.C72 B7 
Copy 1 




